


simple joys

by glassbones



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7932040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassbones/pseuds/glassbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a little drabble about frederick being domestic and happy and relaxed. written for the esparza exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	simple joys

"—I mean, she _says_ the baby is his, but I'd say the same thing if I was her. No, really though. Oh my god, stop it! ..Um, I have to go now. Call you back. Okay bye." 

Frederick locks the door to his office, pretending he hadn't heard anything.

"Dr. Chilton, here are the files you requested? The uh, the publishing agency left a message. Here. If that would be all?" Inelle pauses, looking at him from under lowered lashes. Seriously. So many years working at this institution, and she still tried to flirt. Frederick hides his smirk.

"Thank you Inelle. Have a great weekend," her persistence had to be complimented, if anything. Frederick tucks the files under his armpit and leaves, his cane thumping rhythmically against the floor.

Despite the tendency to run her mouth and a fashion sense that Frederick frankly found tacky, Inelle is a thoroughly competent administrator. And a fine partner in crime. They reached an agreement a few years ago, and a couple bank accounts have been slowly accumulating BSHCI money ever since. Were something to happen, they had each other's backs.

Deep in thought, Frederick doesn't really register where he was going until he finds himself at the exit. The guard waves him goodbye. Frederick tentatively waves back.  
The winter air is chilly, making his breath puff up in little clousds. Frederick pulls the collar of his coat tighter around his neck, slightly shivering against the cold. Sometimes it seems like the winter never abated, Baltimore frozen in a perpetual Narnia-like state.

_Ugh._

His Corvette is where he left her, red and shiny against the off-white of the snow. Frederick unlocks her, throwing the cane on the passenger seat, and promptly drives away, already mentally recounting the contents of his fridge (a sad-looking yogurt, a loaf of bread, and ingredients for a Caesar salad. How depressing). Whole Foods it is.  
He'll die before admitting this to anybody, but this menial blandness, the routine, has always been calming to him. 80s Hits on the radio – he only listens to classical when he's feeling especially pretentious, – a shopping list in his head, not really thinking about anything. Frederick doesn't get a lot of free time, it wasn't in the job description anyway, but he still looks up to these quiet moments.

He's always liked driving, even back when his drive was a beat-up Honda and he had nowhere to drive to except for from his crappy studio apartment to the job he hated and back. Strangely, it relaxes him: the monotony, the need to focus his attention on the road and not whatever is on his mind at the moment.  
He tries to make his trip to the market as quick as he can, quickly throwing the things he needs into the cart: pork chops for the _lechon_ , rice, black beans, and bell peppers for _moros y cristianos_ ; assorted spices (he's been running low on them either way, and if Frederick absolutely has to buy a new spice rack, too, he can't blame himself). He doesn't look Latino - what sort of Latino name is Frederick, _anyway_ , - but his mother was, and she did teach him a few things. He doesn't neccessarily consider himself part of the culture, but the little things, those stay with him, like the cooking. There is a comfort in knowing that you do something the way your mother did it, and her mother, and her mother; that something has been left virtually unchanged for so long.

The rest of the road home is uneventful, _Take On Me_ blasting on the radio as Frederick absently hums along to the song. He will have to let the _lechon_ cook overnight, but the rice and beans will take him around half an hour to cook. There's still a bit of the good coffee left somewhere in his kitchen drawers, the one he busts out only for special occasions. Frederick is excited - he doesn't get to cook very often.

His house is just as pristine and stark as he left it, the streetlight reflecting orange on the smooth surfaces of Frederick's kitchen. There are flowers slowly wilting in the two vases on the kitchen table. Balancing his cane under one elbow, Frederick unloads his shopping onto the closest countertop and throws the flowers into the trash. He doesn't bother turning the lights on: the street lamp across the street is situated just in front of his windows, and the blue-white LED kitchen fixtures remind him all too painfully of how bright the surgical light was when Abel Gideon cut into him. Frederick physically shakes the thought out of his head and puts some music on. This is _so_ not the time to delve into those thoughts. It's Friday night, he's at home, making his favorite food. He starts moving around the kitchen, deliberately making a lot of noise: there is rice to be rinsed, onions and peppers to be chopped; he'll make the _lechon_ later, because it will take a long time to cook anyway, but he might as well prepare the _mojo criollo_ sauce now anyway since he already needs garlic for the rice.. Getting lost in the methodical, step-by-step, preparation has always been his favorite part of cooking (not to mention the actual process of eating, of course), all the little ways to make the process as fast and efficient as possible, the mechanics of it. This is one of the rare minutes when the rest of the world truly leaves him, when he's not worrying about the hospital, or mulling over Will Graham's incarceration and the potentials his therapy could have. He sautées the vegetables, simultaneously remembering the spices he needs to add, singing a little to the music. 

Frederick Chilton is not by nature a happy man, but if this is as close as it gets (the satisfaction of being busy, of _making_ something), he doesn't really mind. If he pretends to sing into the spatula like it's a microphone, no one is there to see him anyway.


End file.
